My mistress's breasts I shall not praise,
in ways which take two centuries.
They are not pure nor white as snow,
their nipples are now dangling low.
I won't compare them to luscious peaches,
with skin so soft and free from creases.
After the party, your deflated balloons
have more in common than the years' full moons
with these once magnificent rising orbs.
Shrivelled silk purses where shimmering globes
once proudly pouted at odds with gravity,
we mourn their passing and alarming brevity.
Display them not, hide them away,
glory days where my lips once lay,
between once firm and full adornments,
now there's only the expanded absence
of love and lust and youth's fulfilment,
in empty, mottled, discoloured defilement.
With sincerest apologies to Shakespeare, Marvell and also Julia. And sorry no picture ... I just couldn't!